Unsolicited beauty advice
I woke up today at 5am from a string of horror-movie-esque nightmares— very Cabin in the Woods and The Evil Dead coded mise en scène. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, I opened my inbox to find some very real-life horror waiting for me to exorcise. It’s true what they say: don’t check your phone the second you wake up. Nothing like 6am heart palpitations while you’ve still horizontal in bed!
I’ve been dealing with something I’m not sure I can fully disclose yet—it’s still ongoing—but trust me, I will whistleblow when the time is right. Naturally, I was left in a real panic state which much to my dismay followed me to the holistic wellness centre, despite my best efforts (klonopin).
Lying, thankfully face down, on that massage table, trying so hard to have my panic attack quietly and undetectably. I had to remind myself: it’s 9-something-am on a Monday. Most people are at work breaking their backs, in a much less holistic manner to which I am… And yet, here I find myself having a stupid panic attack on a spongy massage table to the sound of Tchaikovsky’s The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.
I guess some people would say I really have to get my priorities right and realise my privilege… To that I’d say, yes but it is no privilege to be this emotionally disarmed in what is an objectively relaxing, calm and therapeutic safe space. If my body has panic responses here, then where does it feel safe? It’s moments like this that make me worry: how would I survive in the corporate world? —Without using a hell of a lot more prescription drugs, of course.
I mean, newsflash: the corporate world was definitely not made for people like me. I guess, thank GOD I am not a man, whose corporate world achievements are the only thing keeping him from throwing himself off at the top of his financial district office block. And, a further thank GOD I am a conventionally attractive female, who can just about get by on her sexy-hot eating-disorder-recovery bod, soft blonde hair and big Tim-Burton-character eye balls, complete with flirtatious lashes and pouty lips.
It took around half an hour for the panic to fully resolve—slowly, breath by breath—helped along by grounding techniques: forced positive affirmations and the ever-reliable 5-4-3-2-1 method. Though, face down on a massage table, some of those steps felt almost comically redundant.
Five things I could see? Difficult, face flat, eyes closed. Four things I could touch? Limited, as I lay motionless, draped in towels and oil. Three things I could hear? Easier— Ludwig Minkus, roaring air conditioning and my own flesh being gently manipulated over knots and bone. Two things I could smell? A faint sandalwood-vanilla candle, and the massage oil—sweet, subtle and nutty, like almond or jojoba. One thing I could taste? Toothpaste. Still lingering from my diligent morning routine.
Even half-hearted, the technique anchored me. And eventually the panic began to melt away—just like the tension in my shoulders, pulverised into sweet nothingness. I am very good at staying calm in a crisis. Though I’ll admit, in the moment I felt so trapped in my body, in that therapy room, all vulnerable, oily, naked and afraid! So dizzy with it all that I couldn’t even imagine how I’d be able to get dressed, or walk down that staircase between me and my exit. I felt so wobbly, nothing felt reasonable. —Until everything went back to being fine.
Thankfully, my appointment was an hour and a half, so I still got to enjoy the last hour with only mild paranoia that the panic might come back.
But of course, the moment I left, I felt amazing. Euphoric, even. I crossed the road to Joe & The Juice for a Go Away Doc, or in Laymans terms: carrot, apple, and ginger —No oil. Which I sipped on my walk home. I also had a moment of grace in the M&S Food Hall, where they finally had their cult vegan bakery-bag-cookies back in stock, after a 6 month hiatus!
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I was recently upsold a course of six underarm laser sessions at my beloved laser clinic. To be fair, it was a strategic “thank-you-gift” for buying another round of maintenance sessions for my... well, you know.
I’m not mad about it. Though I already know I’ll end up buying another 6–12 sessions out of pocket to get the job finished. Laser feels shamelessly less like a beauty treatment, more like a long-term relationship —with payment plans. There’s nothing quite like lying on a table, while someone makes eye contact with your asshole as they zap the surrounding hair follicles.
As someone who usually epilates her armpits, I’ve had to stop—since you can’t epilate six weeks before, or during laser treatment. So for the first time in my life, I’ve had to shave my armpits with a razor. Which I hate. I hate change in general, so no surprises there. I know the long-term results will be worth it. But right now? I’m pissed. Lol.
I loved (and miss) using my trusted epilator, which I’ve had since I was 14 years old! I remember being introduced to the epilator at a friend’s house, every sleepover we would steal her mother’s and take turns, using it all over our bodies! Shrieking in pain and excitement. One of my cuter, female coming of age memories.
If laser is not your thing, I recommend getting an epilator. Seriously—it’s way better than shaving and will change your life. It’s the next best thing for long-lasting results, if permanent hair removal isn’t your thing.
…Now, I don’t know what it’s like where you live, but pedicures in London are becoming extortionate. My once-semi-affordable local nail salon now charges £38 for a standard pedicure. At that price I’d appreciate a letter from HMRC, thanking me for my contribution to the economy. I distinctly remember when they were over a tenner cheaper, which still felt only just justifiable!
Plus, since that foot-fettish guy went MIA and stopped paying for my pedicures, I’ve had to become a little more resourceful.
Lately, I’ve realised I can replicate most of the process at home and just pop into the salon for the finishing touches: a shape and polish, which costs a slightly more modest £25.
For years, I swore by in-salon cuticle cutting—it always felt like life saving work. I’ve never been able to master a cuticle cutter myself, nor do I trust myself wielding such a devilish tool. Frankly, I’d probably take off a toe!
But then, I recently discovered Sally Hansen cuticle remover—a miraculous, gloopy liquid that you apply, leave for a moment, then gently push the cuticles back and rinse. I have no idea how it works, and honestly, it seems almost too effective that I worry it’s doing some serious secret damage! But I couldn’t recommend it more for easy and effective home cuticle removal.
Paired with the purchase of a heavy-duty pumice stone, to tackle any weathered patches left behind by my high-heel/ uncomfortable/ impractical footware devotion. I now feel totally capable of handling the gritty parts of a pedicure solo. While I happily outsource the shaping and polish— because I simply do not have the time, patience, or divine temperament required for a base coat, two coats of colour, topcoat, and the nerve-wracking drying phase that inevitably risks smudging. Nor anything, like nail shaping, that involves symmetry! My pathologised perfectionism just can’t.
Despite the cheeky short-cuts, by the end of my new regime I have the feet of a woman who drinks chlorophyll and walks around barefoot for no reason. All while saving… Um, £13… LOL.